


Grave Premonition

by MiskatonicWhaler



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dunwall Noir, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 03:15:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3675351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiskatonicWhaler/pseuds/MiskatonicWhaler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noir AU. Occult investigator Daud has put his criminal past behind him for good - or so he believes. But his mysterious new client is about to try and change that...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grave Premonition

It should have been just one more night in Cullero.

Not exactly quiet – the old port city might be the liveliest venue in the Isles – but ordinary. Peaceful. _Boring_. That would have been fine with me.

But nothing is ever what it _should_ be.

I was sitting behind my desk, about to pour myself a measure of Dunwall gold. (Most people around here would rather swirl a glass of Tyvian red, or perhaps a sparkling white from Saggunto… But when you’ve spent more than half your life in Dunwall, you come to rely on a little fire down your throat now and then.)

I guess I should tell you, I’m not a heavy drinker. That takes a lot of people by surprise – people who don’t know me from before, that is. Which, I’m happy to say, includes most everyone in Cullero, save for my secretary. It’s why I stayed here, instead of moving on to more distant parts. I was born here, nearly half a century ago… but now, even my family name is less than an echo carried far away by the trade winds. The city itself is so crowded and full of tourists that no one looks twice at a stranger, unless they’re looking for a fight.

As I said, I’m not a heavy drinker; but I still like to indulge, on occasion. On this particular occasion, well, business had been slow for a long time. Agencies like mine are frowned upon by the Abbey – for some reason, the idea of private citizens helping people with, let’s say, extra-ordinary troubles, seems to threaten the tenets of the Everyman – so business was never what you might call “booming.” But it had been so long since I had a client with anything more serious than a pet suspected of being hexed (“The damn thing is _pregnant_ , you buffoon”), that I was beginning to wear a permanent impression in the seat of the posh desk chair my relentless secretary had insisted on hauling into my office.

And time not spent on investigations, left a lot of time to spend on _thinking_ …

Winter in Serkonos means rain, and tonight was no exception. A steady drizzle brought an early nightfall, and the streetlamps sputtered and coughed out a weak glow that barely reached my single office window. I had not yet found the motivation to switch on my desk lamp.

What can I say? Darkness stopped hiding its secrets from me decades ago. So I believed, even then.

All the light I needed was currently trapped in the glass confines of my whiskey bottle, waiting patiently to shimmer along the neck and splash into the tumbler on my desk like a cascade of liquid fire. I closed my calloused fingers over the smooth neck of the bottle, enjoying the snug fit of the glass against the contours of my palm. _An old friend…_ The words drifted across my consciousness as smooth as a drop of oil sliding through water. I blinked. Shaking my head a little, I refocused on the whiskey bottle in my hand.

I was just lifting the bottle to pour my glass when the phone, a clunky black affair shoved into a far corner of my broad mahogany desk, began to ring.

Of course.

Only one person ever called my phone. I glared at it for a moment before picking up the receiver.

“Thomas.”

I listened as my secretary cleared his throat before speaking, almost as if he were nervous. That was unusual. _Hmm._

“Ahem… Sir? I know you’re very busy, but there’s a… guest, here to see you, sir. Should I send her in?”

My frown deepened. It was subtle, but to someone who knew the kid as well as I did, this level of hesitation from Thomas was like a neon sign over a highway motel: _Something’s Not Right!_

I tried to sound reassuring. “Thomas. Just yes or no. Is everything okay out there?”

There was a pause. Then: “… Yes, sir. Of course.”

 _Really helpful, kid._ I tried again.

“ _Thomas_ ,” I drew out the name, just half a beat too long, lowering my tone of voice. “If I let you send this person back here, am I going to regret it?”

I heard the kid swallow. “S-sir. I don’t believe so… sir.”

This was getting us nowhere. I sighed heavily. At least I was confident enough in Thomas that if there was any true danger, he would have taken decisive action long before now.

I set down the whiskey bottle, listening to the heavy _thunk_ it made as its amber contents sloshed.

“What’s her name, then?” I coaxed, resigning myself to whatever the evening would bring.

A rustling noise came through the receiver, as if Thomas were shuffling paper. “She says her name’s… Elaine. Ms. Elaine Winters.”

The name meant nothing to me… Not until a few heartbeats had passed, and the realization finally sank in:

A _Gristolian_ name.

Suddenly I thought I could understand Thomas’ hesitation.

But I was already committed… and now I was somewhat intrigued. “Send her in.”

The rotary dial on my desk phone always chimed when the receiver was replaced. The soft, echoing _ding_ carried a certain tone of finality, as if it alone held power to declare a transaction finished.

Quickly I pulled out a drawer in my desk and put in the whiskey bottle – and after a moment’s consideration, the tumbler went in as well. I then set about shuffling the odds and ends on my desk into a semblance of order – old case notes, hand-scrawled maps, a small pile of fountain pens from wealthy clients who seemed to think they made an impressive “thank-you” note. I also kept a few truly odd objects around the edges of my desk: hagfish teeth, a rat’s skull, little bundles of dried herbs, a chunk of obsidian – exactly the sort of worthless junk that people expect an occult investigator to have. At least the herbs smelled nice.

I didn’t need to reach under my jacket to be reassured by the presence of my .45 Balena semi-automatic, or the numerous knives I had concealed on my person. I could sense them as surely as I knew my heart was beating.

The sound of her heels clacking in the hallway reached my office well before I heard her rapping at the door. She did not wait for an invitation, simply pushed open the door and waltzed across the threshold like a queen entering her own private lounge.

“Come in,” I said anyway.

She stopped halfway between my desk and the door, posturing elegantly as her eyes raked over my drab office, no doubt aghast at my lack of taste. Light poured in from the hallway, tracing every galvanic curve of her silhouette with a devilish flare. Her eyes found mine at last, searching, it seemed, but for what, I couldn’t have said.

She spoke in the rich, enthralling tones of an alto who understands exactly what her voice is capable of:

“It’s rather dark in here, don’t you think, _Signor_ Fabio? Would you mind turning on a lamp?”

The name, _Fabio_ , stamped on the frosted glass of my door, sounded just as false on her tongue as it ever had to my ears.

“Of course, Ms. Winters,” I smiled accommodatingly, “… Just as soon as you tell me who you really are.” I spread my hands invitingly, palms open.

Her smile was equally disarming. “My, my… You might even be as sharp as they say.” She tilted her head, as if she still harbored doubts.

“I’m curious – what _do_ they say?”

“Oh, a great many things – it’s quite an intrigue, you know. That the Knife of Dunwall has lost its edge. That you still prowl among us, even deadlier than before. That you were betrayed by your followers, and sit rotting beside Minister Burrows in his cell. That you are dead, but your spirit still haunts the streets of the city, a bogeyman to frighten the foolish.”

“… I see. And how, pray tell, did you come to the door of _Signor_ Fabio, Private Consultant, in this most charming corner of Cullero?”

She laughed at that – a short, dulcet sound, with little humor. “You are not so hard to find, Daud. Not for someone who is willing to spend a little coin.”

It was my turn to look skeptical. I had no illusions of being untraceable; I was relying, perhaps a bit more than advisable, on the capture of Hiram Burrows and the political upheaval following the Loyalist plot to distract Dunwall’s elite from spending too much effort on my own apprehension. But even so, the idea that this woman had singlehandedly followed my trail all the way here, to a section of town that was definitely off the agenda for any tourists who had done their homework, with no more trouble than a bit of coin, was rather hard to believe.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” I reminded her, leaning back in my chair. If she thought she held an advantage here, she was mistaken – but something told me this person was smarter than that.

She folded her arms. “Alright, then… Don’t repeat it to your secretary out there, please. I don’t want any record of this visit. My name is Lydia Boyle.”

I arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. A Boyle sister… One of the most influential – and wealthy – names in Dunwall. Whatever this job was about, it was looking more high-profile by the minute.

True to my word, I reached across the polished surface of my desk and tugged on the chain of a blue-shaded lamp, filling the room with a gentle light.

Lydia Boyle, second-in-line to the family fortune, stood before me in a gorgeously tailored pantsuit of crimson silk, with wide trousers and a tiny waistline cinched by a black belt. Her wide-brimmed hat swooped low to nearly cover her right eye, with a spray of black feathers set at the ribbon. People of class in Dunwall maintained that the second Boyle sister was no great beauty; but in the warm glow of the lamp I saw a handsome face framing sharp grey eyes, without the arrogance that clouded so many visages of society.

“That’s better, thank you,” she said, not taking her eyes off me during the sudden transition from dark to light. I nodded politely.

“Good evening, Ms. Boyle. Now that we have the formalities out of the way, perhaps you’d like to tell me what brings you here tonight. Have a seat, if you wish.”

She considered just a moment before sliding into the comfortable armchair in front of my desk. Her posture was flawless, her feet placed evenly on the floor, as if she were sitting at a harpsichord.

She drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and began. “I’m sure you’ve heard… about Waverly.” I said nothing, and she didn’t prompt further. “It’s all over the Isles by now, I’m sure. How my sister… disappeared on the night of the biggest social event in Gristol. We… we didn’t even notice, to be honest. There was the game, of course, and nobody ever wins the damn thing anyway, because they drink too much cider and by the time the night’s through they’re lucky to remember whose mansion they’re at.”

For the first time she lowered her eyes, just briefly. “It was the next evening, when we figured it out. Waverly always… she never misses our dinners. We were supposed to be meeting with an important lobbyist. She’s never _late_. It’s not just propriety – she _can’t_ be late.” Her gaze beseeched me to understand. “She can’t handle it.”

“I see.” It had once been my business to know the public and private affairs of Dunwall’s upper crust, and this meshed well enough with what I knew of the eldest Boyle sister.

After a thoughtful pause, I reached down and pulled out the middle drawer in my desk, rummaging inside until I found the little carved wooden box. Bringing it out, I opened the lid and offered its contents to Lydia.

“Cigar?”

She recoiled as if I had offered a box of serpents, then caught herself and resumed her fine posture, smoothing her features into a gracious expression. “No, thank you. I never indulge.”

I shrugged. “Suit yourself.” As I lit up a premium Cullero for myself, it occurred to me that Lydia Boyle took her music – and her voice – _very_ seriously.

“So,” I prompted, after a few healthy draws. “You realized your sister was missing… and then?”

Her long eyelashes fluttered. “Well, we didn’t know what to do, at first. Didn’t know what to _think_. Waverly was always the one who took charge; she could get us out of any sort of trouble. But now…”

She produced a square of fine cloth from an unseen pocket on her blouse, and took a moment to dab at the corners of her eyes.

“Esma and I – we hoped that our sister was simply taking some time to be alone, after all the weeks of planning that go into our annual party… but that wasn’t like Waverly. If she wanted to be alone, she’d be sure to clear out her calendar first, and make sure everyone knew it.

“The next morning, we knew we had to do something. So I told our Watch liaison our suspicions, that… that she’d been kidnapped or taken as a political hostage. And, of course, after that… it didn’t take long for everything to come out, about Waverly and… Minister Burrows.”

I nodded. The scandal was infamous by now – the bittersweet tale of the corrupt Prime Minister and his illicit lady friend, who happened to be a wealthy member of Parliament.

“Some people say the truth sets you free.”

The look she gave me suggested that I might need to swallow my entire stash of whiskey immediately.

“I think you and I both know exactly how far the truth will get us, Mr. Fabio.”

I blew out a perfectly formed ring of smoke, which drifted spectrally towards my guest before rising to join the fragrant white cloud gathering above us.

“You were saying?”

She gave a slight shake of her head, but continued.

“It was all the talk of Dunwall for a long time –” _(Really?_ I thought, _I must have imagined all the chatter about the Rat Flu and the crumbling economy…)_ “–but it never came to anything. And our case was forgotten once and for all, when Burrows’ involvement in the influenza outbreak was discovered. Now the city’s in uproar, Parliament is in a frenzy trying to sort itself out… The last thing anyone cares about is the fate of a vanished – a vanished –”

“Enough,” I cut in gently. Leaning forward, I held her gaze, noting how her sea-grey eyes glistened – fear, frustration, irritation at the cigar smoke, it was a safe bet all around. Despite this, she maintained her composure well.

“Am I to understand, Ms. Boyle, that you came all the way to Serkonos to ask for my help in finding your sister?”

A low chuckle escaped her, the kind of sound people make when they begin to understand how futile, how fragile are the things they’ve spent their lives chasing after. The kind of laughter I heard most.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” she remarked, a hint of bitterness in her tone. “That the sheep should come running to the wolf for help...” She exhaled deeply. “Believe me, this wasn’t the first path I tried. I’m _quite_ sure that damn fool Pendleton knows something…”

“Pendleton?” I repeated, jogging my memory. “Wasn’t he part of the Loyalist plot to overthrow Parliament?”

“Nominally, yes,” she replied, sounding miffed. “But the court found that he truly wanted no part in Havelock’s attempted coup. He was only trying to oust Burrows to protect his own seat in the House of Lords. A pity they didn’t try him for cowardice instead.”

“And you think he’s connected to Waverly somehow?” I prodded. Her expression darkened.

“I _know_ he is… What I don’t know is how. But he spends all his days tormented by her memory, and take my word – it’s more than just pining after a woman he can’t have. He’s done that our whole lives, but this is something different. This is – _guilt_.”

She formed a fist with her right hand and pounded her empty palm with it. “But he won’t _talk_ to me – refuses to talk to anyone about it. He has too much self-preservation instinct, damn him. But, if we could just… help him see _past_ all that…” She looked at me hopefully.

“You mean, if we convince him that talking is preferable to the alternative.”

“Precisely,” she agreed, sounding pleased. “Treavor Pendleton is not a complicated man. It will be easy for you –”

“You expect me to go to Dunwall.”

The statement hung in the air between us, much more opaque than the fog of smoke overhead.

“I can pay you –”

“You can’t afford me,” I informed one of the wealthiest women in the Isles. It was true – no amount of coin would be enough for what she was asking me to do. Her hopeful expression fell – but not for long.

She kept her gaze steady. “I know who you are, and where you are. I could make life very difficult –”

“What makes you think you’ll be leaving Cullero?”

“If I’m not at the Boyle estate two days from now, _alive_ and unharmed, certain people will begin making inquiries – and the clues I left will tell them exactly where I went.” She could have been bluffing; her poker face was flawless.

I sighed. “Ms. Boyle. You may find this hard to believe, but I applaud your efforts to find your sister. I’d do the same in your place. But you’re chasing the wrong hare. I’m a criminal, the most wanted man in Dunwall. And, frankly, I’ve put that life behind me now. I’m through with Gristol. I’ve got a decent life here. And if I have to disappear again, well, so be it. But I can’t help you, Lydia. …I’m sorry.”

She stared as if I’d slapped her in the face. Metaphorically, I suppose I had.

After a long moment of silence, she finally stood up, anger draped around her like a bristling fur coat. “I’m sorry too, then.” She hesitated a moment, considering something. “You know, when we were girls – my sisters and I – we used to hear stories about the Knife of Dunwall. How he sweeps in in the dark of night, and takes swift vengeance on those who were unkind. …It’s foolish of me, I know… but I suppose… old dreams die hard.”

She rummaged through her silk brocade handbag, eventually producing a white square of folded paper, which she laid on my desk.

“A… friend… asked me to give this to you,” she said. Her business concluded, she turned without another word and made her way regally to the door. There she paused one last time. As her gloved fingers brushed against the doorframe, she glanced back at me over her shoulder, her pale eyes dark beneath the brim of her hat. “Goodbye, Daud… If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” her powerful voice whispered, and then she was gone like a wisp of fog carried in the arms of the wind.

For a while I didn’t move – just drew on my cigar, creating elegant smoke rings, and mulling over exactly why I was allowing Lydia Boyle to walk out of my office building.

The answer proved elusive, and soon enough I turned my thoughts to the mysterious offering on my desk.

I picked up the square of paper and examined it. It was unmarked, and was folded in the manner of a homemade envelope, enclosing something else inside, judging by its thickness. If this had come from a friend of Lady Boyle, it was a curious choice of stationery, indeed.

There was nothing else for it. I unfolded the envelope square and its contents fell out onto my desk – two more pieces of folded paper. I opened the first, and found a letter scrawled in blocky handwriting.

My breath hitched in my throat as I started to read:

> Mr. Daud,
> 
> I think I hate you. I know that’s mean, you shouldn’t hate people, that’s what mum always said. ~~But when y~~ But now she’s gone, and I think a lot of things that Callista says I shouldn’t.
> 
> (She doesn’t know I’m writing this. I hope she doesn’t find out. I don’t want Ms. Boyle to get in trouble too.)
> 
> ~~Anyways, even if I hate you, I~~
> 
> ~~This is hard writing is stupid stupid stupid~~
> 
> Sorry about that, I got tired yesterday so I took a break. Did they make you write Reports when you were in school? I bet you got to learn all kinds of neat stuff like how to sword fight and raid ships and juggle fire and read minds. Corvo won’t let me go to school in Serkonos.
> 
> If you get this letter, I guess it means you met my piano teacher, Ms. Boyle. She can be mean, but I promise she’s actually really nice, just don’t forget to do your homework ever. Or just talk about how much you love music. If she acts mean, it’s because she’s scared about her sister. Do you have a sister? I don’t, but I bet that’s really hard. It’s kind of like when I was locked up in the Golden Cat. I mean, the Golden Cat has a lot of neat junk and some of the ladies are friendly, but when you’re worried about someone, you don’t care about any of that. I was worried about Corvo. They told me he was dead, but I didn’t believe them.
> 
> So if you could help Ms. Boyle find her sister, she’d really, REALLY be thankful. It's probably not the kind of work you like to do. But I bet you’ll get to do lots of bad stuff! Like beat up people and kill the kidnappers. I think that’s why she wants to hire you. Also she has a lot of money. (A LOT.)
> 
> And, I know you don’t care, but it would mean a lot to me if you help Ms. Boyle. Because, I don’t like it when my friends are sad. I think Corvo’s sad too, but he tries to pretend he’s not.
> 
> You probably think it’s weird that I’m writing you a letter. But my friend said it would be a good idea. The one with the funny hat. He has a lot of weird ideas. He says you’re his friend too. ~~So maybe you’re not terrible.~~ I don’t think he has many friends.
> 
> Please help Ms. Boyle.
> 
> Emily Kaldwin

I let the letter slip from my hands; it fluttered slowly down to the desk. I sat there for a moment, dazed, until I finally remembered there had been a second piece of paper.

This one turned out to be a drawing, carefully done in crayon:

Three stick figures graced the page. The first was half as tall as the other two, dressed in white and with a red ribbon tied around her hair. This was clearly Emily. She was holding the hand of the figure beside her, a man in a funny black hat and a black-and-white pinstripe suit, and a smile that may or may not have been intentionally unsettling. This figure was also gripping the hand of the person on his other side – a man in a big red coat, with a knife dripping blood in his free hand, and a severe frown on his face.

Friends.

I started to laugh, and soon found that I couldn’t stop.

“Sir? Is everything okay?”

Through a haze of cigar smoke I saw that my secretary had come running into the office, alarmed by my uncharacteristic outburst. I fought to regain control of my breathing.

“Yes… Thomas… Everything’s fine,” I assured him. Glancing down, I quickly slid the drawing underneath the letter, safely out of view.

Thomas appeared relieved.

“Good, sir. Sorry to bother you, sir. I was worried that she might have – Well. I’ll get back to my post, sir.”

The kid turned back towards the hall as I nodded.

“Fine, fine,” I muttered distractedly, always mildly amused at the kid’s eagerness to please. The open letter on my desk stared back at me like the Outsider’s own eyes.

“Oh, and Thomas?”

“Sir?” He paused at the doorframe, in just the same spot where Ms. Boyle had stood, worrying at the cuffs of his sharp blue suit.

“Go home and pack your things. We’re leaving at first light tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: the wonderfully talented EeveebethFejvu <3


End file.
